Sweaters has a minion!

Trouble the Sugar Cube Thief

The dragon had lived there longer than any of the townsfolk could remember. In fact, that dragon had lived there amongst the mountain and valley and forest long, long before the small town even came to be nestled in amongst the hemlocks and spruce. His was a somewhat lonely life, though he would fly far off at times to visit others of his species, dip his head under the water's surface (dragons can hold their breaths for quite some time you know) and observe the fish in the lake, and ride thermals with the eagles and hawks. The larger animals tended to give him space. Understandable given his dietary needs. The exception was the raccoons. The small, curious critters (who could make an easy snack for the dragon) seemed willfully ignorant to the danger he posed. Once timid in their investigation, they had taken to hunting him down and bedding atop his warm body in the cooler months - pawing and poking his scales as they climbed up, chittering at one another over prime positions before sleeping soundly between spines and wings. They were an endearing kind, and he could never bring himself to eat one no matter how far from home he roamed. In fact, though he would take with respect and appreciation a meal of animal with some regularity, he was in truth an omnivore, a highly developed creature with a system that excelled at drawing nutrition from almost any source. And thus he dined more often than not on not his neighbors, but the bounty of natural resources around him. This didn't stop the humans of course, as they moved into the territories of dragons around the world, from passing to one another tales of sharp teeth, retched claws, and dripping fangs. Mind you, he did have a cousin (distant cousin that is) who could be the poster child for those tales. But most dragons actually preferred a simple life - resting, dining, and finding small joys in the day to day. It was only the truly desperate dragon who attempted to pluck a human from the herd. Most avoided them, knowing the stories of their clever weapons and fearsome wrath.

This is why, of course, this dragon met his new neighbors with an abundance of caution. For to his surprise, one day in the late spring a cacophony of voices and bleats and clangs and squeaky wheels came over the hills and into his valley – a large group of humans accompanied by smaller livestock, carts loaded with goods and lumber, and the occasional smart looking cat who perched atop the mess like royalty observing from their throne. For the first few weeks, the dragon reoriented his flight paths around the rising town, save the odd day where the fog or heavy clouds gave him ample cover. He perched on high mountain outcrops, his excellent eyesight more than powerful enough to allow him to observe this new species as it hammered and dug, lassoed and thatched. They seemed alright enough, staying close to their smartly constructed dens and barriered plots of land. But one could never be sure.

Yet as the days went on, the dragon came to learn that these humans spent most of their days within the loose border of their town, talking to one another, planting and harvesting, tending to the animals they had led up and herded into their fences. They built barrels to collect rain and they sewed clothing. With fire smartly constructed and contained they sent delicious smells wafting towards him and found ways to bring small orbs of light into the town even after dark. They did not seem to come looking for him, and they showed no appetite for violence. So one night, after the first few weeks of their settling, he crept down the mountainside and through the trees until he was as close to the forest edge as he dared go. He climbed up into a batch of trees that grew close together, strong enough to hold his weight, and nestled in amongst the braches, tail wrapped around the trunk with tip swishing nervously. It was quiet out, save the occasional bleat of the goats or soft voice sending a melody through a window and into the dark night. A few folks milled about with their orbs of light, speaking in soft voices before retiring to their humble homes. The houses went dark, one or two at at time, until the only light was that of the moon and stars glowing down upon the sleepy town.

It was then that he heard the rustling, the familiar boisterous chitters, and sure enough, along came the raccoons. Clever and bold, they marched right past him, weaving through the tall grasses with purpose, intent upon the town. The dragon hissed with alarm, they were so much smaller than the humans, perhaps even potential prey! What were they thinking! Yet the raccoons (to no one’s surprise) ignored him entirely. They strutted into the town and went right to work seeking out hidden treasures. Some climbed atop barrels, quick hands working over edges until they had pried open the lids, while others strolled along the streets with a fearless swagger, going windowsill to windowsill searching for treats.

The dragon hissed again under his breath. While the humans had shown no threatening behavior so far, he wasn’t exactly planning on marching himself into town. To be honest, he wasn’t even planning on going a single step closer to the town until he had done at least another week, or month, or … well just more recon. But now, despite his good eyesight, he had no choice. His little friend wove in and out of streets, impossible to keep an eye on from where he was currently perched. No, if he wanted to make sure they stayed safe, he would have to be closer. It may seem silly, given that he was naturally more likely to eat them than protect them. But the truth was, these were his friends and he knew in his heart he would be heavy laden with sadness and guilt should he sit back and allow something to happen to them. And so, cursing those stupid fluffy little pests under his breath, he slid down the tree and slunk across the grasses of the hillside, his belly and wings so low they skimmed the ground.

If you could watch from afar, it would be quite comical. Here we have upwards of fifteen raccoons scooting and scurrying around a new town as if it was a themepark build just for their exploration while a large, fierce-looking dragon tiptoes in slow motion, wide-eyed and vigilant at each corner and creaking noise. Of course, you couldn’t because you weren’t there. But sometimes it does well for us to imagine. The dragon held his breath as he inched through the town, expecting someone to jump out at him at any moment with a triumphant “aha!”. But no one did. The night remained quiet, the town remained asleep, and the raccoons remained unbothered. He relaxed slightly then, and began to take in the town with more curiosity. As he meandered down an alley way, he came across two of his fluffy friends. They were perched on the rim of a barrel, chittering intermittently and tossing various items over their heads until they found something snackable. As the dragon poked his nose closer for a better look he was suddenly blinded. Everything went black, and the world had disappeared.

The dragon reared in panic, screaming under his breath, and swiped his paws before him in a frenzy. He fell backwards, landing on his rump with an audible thud just before his nail caught on the item clearly latching itself to his face. His swiping pulled it away, revealing that he was in fact not blind, but had instead been the victim of the wild flinging of the goal-oriented raccoons. He held the attacker, erm – item rather – out for examination. Turning it left and right, it appeared innocuous. It was thick and soft, like a rectangle with two noodles coming off of it – one on either side. It had a small hole at one end, and a large hole at the other. He gave it a cautious sniff. It smelled of sweat and honey, with hints of sheep and goat and trees and clove and...food? There, splattered on the center of the item was a large stain giving a faint scent of vegetables. Having finally deemed it safe, the dragon brought it closer and rubbed his nose against it. He found it to be delightfully plush and scratchy. Tucking it in to his chest with one arm, he leaned his neck back over the raccoons and into the barrel. Putting the pieces of the puzzle together, he concluded that this barrel contained things being discarded, which meant there was no harm in taking the unexpected treasure home with him. Surely no one would miss it, given where it had been left. He plodded along a few more streets before whistling softly to his friends. A few perked up and acknowledged him, one or two even trotting over to accompany him back. He didn’t love leaving anyone behind, but didn’t dare risk waiting too much longer before leaving the town. The raccoons were smart and quick, he reminded himself, and the town had turned out to be far less dangerous than he had worried it would be. So he gave a final scan, walked a few paces away from the town’s edge, and took flight.

He hadn’t intended to return to the town. The raccoons came and went safely each night and required no guarding. The humans went about their days unaware of him, giving him no reason to assume contact with them would be of benefit (or – to be fair -that it would be a bad thing). What he did intend to do was treasure the magical prize from the town for eternity. He adored the way it felt, and often slept with it draped over his nose. He liked to inhale deeply and get all the layers of scent that clung to it. And that one treasure was enough for him. Or so he thought.

You see, the old stereotype of dragons and hoarding behaviors isn’t exactly based on nothing. Dragons are in fact genetically wired to form a hoard. It just isn’t always gold and riches like you tend to see in art and stories. It can be anything. Why, one of the most beautiful and biodiverse lakes in the world is actually a dragon hoard! He happened to find fish amazing, and the rest is history. So naturally, when one of the raccoons came bobbling into the dragon’s cave dragging a slightly chewed up and worn down old cardigan one night around 3am she triggered an awakening that rumbled up out of the dragon’s genetics and roared to life. One stained sweater is a treasure, but two is a hoard. A small one very much in need of being grown.

And so the next night the dragon found himself once again perched in the thick of trees on the edge of the valley, watching with keen eyes as the lights of the town twinkled out one by one until darkness settled firmly into place. He slipped down out of the tree and stretched his wings, shaking off the leaves and twigs that had gotten caught along the ridge of spines on his back. With keen alertness but far less fear than the first time, he trotted down the grassy hill and into the sleeping down. He had gotten lucky before. Most of these treasures would not be discarded or done away with. The people here tended to patch and mend, use and reuse, until things could no longer be salvaged. He would have to search with more intent to find another piece for his treasure trove. Thankfully humans can be forgetful, and over the next few weeks it wasn’t uncommon for the dragon to sniff out a sweater left draped over a porch chair, left hanging out to dry on a laundry line, or in ball along a fence line where it had earlier been removed and set to the side as the day warmed.

But luck would run out. People tend to better keep track of their items when they have recently lost and had to replace them. They find ways to remind themselves to bring the laundry in, walk back along the fence on the way in to pick up discarded items, or clear the porch before bed. Which is how, after a fruitless week of searching high and lo around the town, the dragon found himself sitting outside a quiet home near 1am, staring through the window at a lovely green sweater that had been left draped enticingly over the back of a plush chair. The fireplace was ashy and cold, no signs of movement. And despite his generally careful nature, the dragon’s innate lust for his treasures drove him beyond his comfort zone and into reckless territory. With a deep breath to steel his nerves, he slid two claws into the small gap where the bottom of the window seated against the rough sill and gently pushed upward. The window gave a small click as it settled into place, and the dragon froze. When no one came rushing with pitchforks or frying pans he loosed his held breath and tilted his head left, then right, then left again to search for creaking floors or shuffling feet. No noises met his search, so he used his muscular legs to lift himself up and through the window, surprisingly nimble and quiet despite just barely being able to fit (and that was going one shoulder and then one hip at a time). The prize in reach, the dragon took three large, quick paces and stretched his neck. He grabbed the sweater off the chair and was back outside in a flash, heart pounding with fear and exhilaration. That being more than enough adventure for one night, and his instincts satisfied with his prize, he made to leave the town. He had reached the end of the street when a delighted chittering and the tapping and scratching of little hands hit his ears. The window! He darted back and swiftly snagged the raccoon’s rear just before it disappeared into the home. Ignoring the disgruntled and scolding sounds the little bandit was making, he quietly shut the window, plopped his friend on the ground, and made his way to the grasses where he could take flight home.

And so became his new normal. He would wake from his late afternoon nap with a large, feline-like stretch that ended with a nose-to-tail shake. He would take a moment to cherish his hoard, then meander down the mountain. Along the way he may stop to watch lizard bask in the evening sun or, if he was feeling a bit sassy, stick his head up into the trees to get a rise out of the local birds; but he would always end up in the same place – his perching trees. From here, he watched the town shift with the coming night. People made their way home, lights twinkled and disappeared, and the hum of activity turned to soft silence. This was his cue. He would drop from the tree and trot down the hill with the confidence of one who has experienced a long streak of things going right. Into the town he would slip alongside his furry friends. Some nights he would find a treasure waiting for him during his initial loop, forgotten outside again or discarded with intention, but most nights he had to venture further into the world of man. His process became smooth and skilled with repetition. Should his first pass be unsuccessful, he would lap the town again, this time peering carefully into the first floor of each home and building. He could open windows with precision, slip inside with uncanny fluidity, and be out in a flash. Some nights even his second pass granted him no prize, and so he took to scaling the porches and sidings to peek into second story windows by hanging his head over the edge of the roof. This, dear friend, happened to be the case on the night where our beloved dragon’s story took a very interesting and unexpected turn.

After a full week of fruitless searching, the dragon’s instincts roared in his mind as he hung his head off the roof and stared through smudged glass at a plush, colorful knitted turtleneck that lounged temptingly over the armrest of a wooden rocking chair in a dark, silent room. The problem was, this room had a bed, and he had learned that beds at night typically have humans in them. To his astonishment and great luck (or so he thought) a very thorough scan of the bed from both of the room’s windows turned up only a rumpled duvet and scattered pillows. No up and down motion of someone sleeping deeply under the covers, no lumps of a living body somehow hiding amongst the pillows. And so, with great excitement and a bit too much tunnel-vision on his prize, he carefully cracked open the window, rotated his body so that one large, clawed paw held the frame while the other rested on the wooden floor just inside, and extended his head and neck until he held the turtleneck gently in his mouth.

The clatter of the cup on the floor shattered the silence and the dragon found himself frozen in this pose, caught in an utterly undesirable staring contest with a young man who stood statue-still, mouth agape, oak-colored eyes wide, one hand limply holding a green and white saucer that matched the cup now laying on its side on the floor beside a rapidly expanding puddle of steaming tea. For what felt like an eternity but was surely no more than a second or two, the two remained locked in this position; the man’s mind circling through a loop that was attempting to determine if he was in fact actually awake or if this was an uncannily realistic dream, the dragon’s mind and instincts playing a terribly important game of tug-of-war between fire or fleeing.

To the great luck of the man, this was a dragon whose armor, claws, teeth, and flame was uniquely mismatched with his spirit of curiosity and kindness. The scent of honey and lemon sung into the dragon’s nose, the new sensory input somehow the key that unlocked the frozen moment. In a heartbeat the dragon was outside the house, atop the roof, and into the sky. The man could only run to the window and stare up in awe, catching only the silhouette of the dragon, turtleneck still clasped in his mouth, against the bright moon as he disappeared over the forest and beyond the mountain ridge.

It didn’t take long for the townsfolk to put two and two together, though it did take a bit initially for the young man to convince the others that he was not in fact going absolutely mad. And while it made little sense to them why such a creature would be stealing their outerwear (it most certainly did not line up with the old stories they’d heard about dragons, that’s for sure) it did seem to make a lot more sense that their outerwear was being stolen by someone, even a dragon, than it did that somehow everyone in town had misplaced multiple sweaters, cardigans, pull overs, jackets, and turtlenecks.

The small town wasn’t quite sure what to make of the situation, or to do about it. On one hand, a dragon could pose quite a risk to them and their livestock. On the other hand, the dragon seemed to have been in and out of the town repeatedly for months now, and no one was ever harmed. In fact, the young man pointed out during the town meeting, the dragon had chosen to run away from a single human rather than cause him harm. Caution was needed for sure, but perhaps they could approach the situation, and the dragon, with curious optimism and the benefit of the doubt.

With a few mumbles from those who previously dissented but couldn’t deny the logic of the argument, the adults of the town agreed. Of course, agreeing on the mindset behind their handling of the situation didn’t exactly tell them what they should or shouldn’t do. Go about business as usual and hope for the best? Set up night watches in case? Seek out the dragon in hopes of gathering more information? The voices began to layer as they weighed the merits and shortcomings of each.

It was then that a soft voice rose from the back corner where the children sat in a group, a few of the youngest tinkering with blocks and doodling in the dust. Usually disinterested in the discussion, most of the children had in fact been following the conversation with rapt interest. They were, after all, talking about a dragon. That was far more interesting than crop yields, lumber collection, or rainwater usage. The adults hushed one another in a wave, spreading from the corner to the front of the room. Then, one of the few who had initially heard the young girl’s comment turned back to her.

“Say that again child.”

“Perhaps he wants a sweater.” The little girl said matter-of-factly.

Voices quickly popped back up, scoffing or considering in equal measure."Hush, hush!” The man chided the room. “Go on child.”

“Our sweaters are very small. The dragon is very large. Perhaps he wants so many sweaters because he needs a very large sweater.” She paused, mistaking the silence of contemplation for a sign that the adults needed help comprehending. “Because he is very large.”

A few good-natured laughs danced around the room and mumbles began between small groups. Finally, the young man who had seen the dragon raised his hands and spoke.“While it seems a bit crazy to us, it is no more wild an idea that doing nothing, invading his home, or spreading ourselves thin staying up all night. Perhaps befriending the dragon is the best possible option for us all. And if a …” he smiled warmly at the little girl who had now climbed into her mother’s lap and was watching him with interest “very large sweater is how we do it, so be it.”

To his mild surprise, the townsfolks came to a quick agreement and wasted no time. They set out, and spent the next few days collecting, knitting, and binding together a very large, colorful sweater.

Each night after a day of working to keep things running smoothly for the town or working on the dragon’s gift, the townsfolk would retire to their homes with the silent understanding that while they were all acting as if they would simply be going to bed as normal they would all in fact actually be peeking and peering out windows hoping for a glimpse of the dragon. Throughout these nights, as raccoons plodded through the streets, emptied barrels of waste, and snacked happily on leftovers, the townsfolk would struggle to keep their heavy eyelids lifted and stifle increasingly deep yawns until they succumbed one by one to slumber. Despite their hopes and efforts, no one saw the dragon.

But to watch for him was a fool’s errand, because after his nightmarish encounter he had not dared to return to the town. The first night he remained curled up tightly atop his hoard, unable to truly sleep. Each noise would make him jump, and he eventually gave up on the hope of peaceful dreams and laid his head atop a rock where he could hear, see, and smell someone approaching long before they were close enough to harm him.

The second day he napped lightly on and off, so come the evening he was not so exhausted. He left his burrow and perched on his old outcrop partway down the mountainside. No one came for him. No one left the town. No one seemed upset by the raccoons who had continued on with their normal routine with an obliviousness to the absolute drama unfolding around them.

By the third night, he had slept soundly in the warm afternoon and found himself carefully making his way down the slope of the forest until he reached the familiar and comfortable collection of trees where he had once taken nightly roost. And there he sat, night after night, watching from afar as his bold bandit friends wandered through the town with no sight or sound of humans doing the same.

After several nights of watching, he began to feel an easing in his chest. The fear began to ebb away slightly, and he began to wonder if the humans had somehow forgotten or denied his presence. On the seventh night, he was sure they had not. For when he made his way to his perching trees he found something he had never seen before. A wooden t had been erected several paces away from the town’s edge and there, in the last rays of the setting sun, hung a very large sweater.

It was obviously hand knitted, colorful and plush, and had exquisite detailing. The collar was doubled in thickness for comfort; the front was open and lined on one side with several oblong stones each tethered by a small loop of rope and each aligned with a small open hole on the other side of the sweater.

The dragon’s jaw dropped. He had never seen something so magical. He wanted to leap from the tree and glide or gallop to it. He wanted to yank it (carefully) off the wooden beam and inhale its woven scents, rub the scratchy and think material on his scales.
But…was it a gift? Or, was it a trap?

The dragon quietly slipped down out of the tree and kept his body low to the ground. His wings were tucked tightly into his back, his tail extended out and so low it brushed the earth as he snaked through the tall, soft grasses. Each few steps he would pause to look, and listen, and smell. The humans were not visible, but they were close. He could hear their breathing, uneven with anticipation. He could smell them on the breeze.

When he was two thirds of the way to the treasure he heard the hesitant steps of a townsperson and froze, lifting his head above the grasses like a periscope. Slowly, a young man appeared from behind one of the buildings on the town’s edge. Not just a young man, the dragon realized. The young man. He held his hands up, palms out. The dragon lowered his head until only his eyes sat above the grassline. His wings began to drift outwards, low but readying for a forceful thrust upwards.

“Hello dragon.” the young man said.

The dragon cocked his head to the side in acknowledgement.

“Um, we hope you come in peace.” The man looked over his shoulder, suddenly very aware that he stood alone in a field with a dragon who could presumably very easily eat him, or burn him, or … well the gist was the same no matter the method. “We mean you no harm.” He continued. Did the dragon even know what he was saying? Did dragons speak human languages? Were dragons really as smart as legend said? Why did he volunteer for this again.

The dragon did not make the same noises as the humans, but he did understand emotions, tone, body language, and was more adept at understanding languages than some of his kinfolk. And the dragon understood then, as he smelled no deceit or malice, as he felt hopefulness and fear, that this was not a trap. This was a gift. A beautiful gift.

He stood upright then, his wings lifting off the ground, his head rising, his tail swishing side to side. The sun gleamed on his scales as it gave way for the night and the glow of the stars. He walked slowly towards the man and the sweater until he stood before them, so close they could reach out and touch. Seeing nothing but truth in the man’s eyes, he dipped his head and smiled. The moonlight twinkled in his eyes, and the man understood (don’t doubt the magic of dragons my friends, they don’t need human speech to communicate important things).

The man looked hesitantly at the dragon, then over his shoulder, then back. The dragon gave a nod, and the man waved to his community who was at this point doing a terrible job of staying hidden. Heads and eyes and legs and a few whole bodies poked out from behind buildings and barrels and windows.

‘humans’ the dragon laughed to himself. So they really were as comical as he had once heard. Or, at least these ones were. Comical and kind it seemed.

The townsfolk made their way over, the adults with caution and the children with eagerness and excitement. Once they had assembled, the dragon nosed one side of the sweater off the beam and slid a front leg through the short, wide sleeve. His wings found it easy to slip through the mindfully placed holes in the center of the back, and with a lean to the side he slid the other sleeve off of the cross and onto his other leg. Shyly a woman stepped forward. The dragon sat back on his haunches so she could reach the front of the sweater with ease. She took one of the stones in her hand – so small to the dragon’s paws but taking up her whole palm, and slid it smoothly through the hole on the other side. The dragon watched her carefully, understanding her goal. He looked at her after she finished the first, ‘once more’ his eyes seemed to say, and so she repeated the process with the second stone. The dragon then held the third stone in his paw and eased it through the third hole, repeating until all six were complete.

He beamed. He had never seen or felt something so exquisite. He had never been given such a lovely gift. He flared his wings and shimmied to make the fabric dance along his scales, then spun in delight and gave a loud bellow of elation and gratitude.

The townsfolk began to laugh then, a soft chuckle of relief that spread through them all until it swept them up and had some of them holding their bellies and booming with hearty laughter. The children may not have understood the complex relief and awe of the adults, but they understood the joy of their laughter. It was like a wildfire that had them beginning to giggle and run around the dragon, leaping over his tail as it swished happily along the ground and taking turns being lifted by his wings.

‘Yes’ the dragon thought, ‘comical and kind. Exactly what you’d hope for in a friend.’

After that night, the dragon never again spent an evening perched in the trees watching in fear. Most nights he slept soundly, curled up in his burrow atop his hoard, dreaming about all the things he and his friends had done that day. Other nights he soared above the town in the moonlight, relishing the cool breeze in his beautiful sweater.

The dragon and the townsfolk lived together many days. He climbed trees with the children, swam deep in the lake below the fishermen’s boats, surprising them with sprays of cold water on days he was feeling sassy, and curled up around the bonfire on autumn evenings while the elders told stories and the whole town shared delicious food. Together they created new stories, far too many to tell here. Stories full of rolling laughter, occasional chaos, wholesome magic, beautiful sweaters, and – of course – raccoons.